


Imbalance: Tiredness

by Lady_R



Series: Imbalance [1]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Child Death, Corpses, F/M, Gwyneiros shall be the hill I die on, Gwynevere Is Wife Goals, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, Past Sexual Assault, Scars, Self-Harm, and Oceiros is still sane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 05:02:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17135462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_R/pseuds/Lady_R
Summary: Lorian, elder prince of Lothric, has died in his sleep. Nobody, not even his brother, can explain why.Gwynevere, the prince's mother, has to cope with the loss on her own – keeping her fragile husband from shattering and her now only son from slipping away from her grasp.





	Imbalance: Tiredness

Lothric and Lorian sleep side by side. It’s no the first time, nor will it be the last. The younger lays curled up under the older’s arm, a white wool blanked placed over the coarse swaddling clothes. Lorian’s hair, kissed by the already tall sun, look like strings of pure gold. 

High Priestess Emma sits on a stool, a scroll of notes in her hand. -The boys write of nightmares, darkness. ’Tis not pleasant to read about.-

-Sulyvahn is a complicated maester.- Gwynevere whispers. -I doubt it does them good, but he’s whom Lothric chose.- 

She looks at Oceiros, hoping for him to support her, but the king’s stare is lost on the floor. She holds his wrist in her fingers, and two huge blue eyes meet hers. 

-Lorian chose his own maester. It was his decision. He has the right to choose on whatever he can.-

He raises his eyes, watching the boys laying side by side. -They have to wake up, the sun is high already.-

Gwynevere walks over Emma and climbs atop the mattress. Sunlight makes even the duvets look yellow. The queen shuts her eyes at the brightness. Too much light, all at once. All for Lothric. 

-Come on, boys. The time has come to get up.- 

Lothric raises his head from the pillow, but lets himself fall down a moment later. -Easy there, love.- She gives him her hands, so that he can sit down. Lothric hugs himself, blinking. The hood covers his eye, his lips are folded downwards. Gwynevere shakes her head. 

-Luncheon awaits you. We have freshly imported oranges.-

Lothric shakes his head and keeps his eyes low. A knight steps forward and takes the boy into his metallic arms. The prince wails. He’s probably cold, but Gwynevere knows the knight will soon put him down. Nobody can hold the Holy King in their arms for so long. Sometimes she wants to lock Lothric inside a reliquary, granting him all comforts through the glass, far away from all danger. She simply needs to look at Oceiros to know he agrees with her. When the knight that holds Lothric passes the king by, the boy turns the other way. The king raises his eyes and clenches his lips. 

Lorian hasn’t moved from the bed. She expected that. The battle against the Demon Prince seems to have condensed the blood inside his veins. But he’s also a prince, and he can’t sleep until noon.

-Lorian, come on. Wake up.-

Gwynevere strokes her child’s hair. The prince lays motionless, eyes shut. The queen smiles pleasantly. -Come on, Lorian. Get up.-

She shakes him again, and the smile fades off her lips. Lorian’s chest is motionless, no breath escapes his agape lips. Gwynevere staggers back, shaking.

-Lorian! What is it?-

-Gwynevere pants, sweats, fingers shaking like the rope of a bow as she grabs onto Lorian’s arm and shakes it. -Lorian, dearest! Wake up, Lorian!-

The queen intakes a deep breath, shaking the boy further. -OSI!-. Her husband’s steps sound along the staircase, behind her; Oceiros’ hand, covered by a dark blue leather glove, places itself on hers.

-Lorian, come on. It isn’t funny.- The king giver her his back, fingers curved like claws. -Lorian, please. Lorian. No.- 

-Give the boy to me.- a voice orders behind them. Gwynevere blinks her misty eyes and moves to the side alongside her husband. Oceiros gives her a frightened stare and takes her hand, squeezing it tight. Emma walks in front of them, kneeling next to Lorian’s motionless body. She holds his wrist, breathes out, leans her forehead on his hand. 

Oceiros’ hold gets stronger yet, nails covered by gloves pressing on her palm.

Emma turns to them, eyes to the floor.

-He’s dead.- 

 

Oceiros’ hold loosens up and slips off hers, a faint thud announces that he fell to his knees – Gwynevere sees nothing, and the other words the religious woman is pronouncing lose themselves in a meaningless blur. Someone is sobbing. Only then does the queen recognize her own voice. 

Emma is turned to the window, lowered head covered by brown hair. She can’t see Oceiros, but it doesn’t matter. She staggers towards her, reaches her side. -What does it mean?-

-The boy has deceased during the night. His heart has stopped. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry, my queen.-

Emma’s voice is stern and deep, even in pronouncing those horrendous words. When Gwynevere turns around, she can hear her sob. Or, again, is it herself? Even Oceiros has vanished. Gwynevere sees a purple mass leaning above where Lorian lays – _dead_ – shaking and sobbing with the deep voice she loves. 

-Osi.- she whispers, slowly kneeling. She wipes her eyes in her sleeves, she brushes by her husband’s arm. Oceiros retreats, he bumps against the bed growling like a dog, pouring tears and mucus into his mouth. 

-My son.- he whispers. He stands up hastily, letting go of Lorian’s hand, and runs down the staircase, towards the corridor, more and more blurred and far away. Gwynevere falls to her side. Lorian’s hand waits on the bed, open, cold.

The queen holds it, wrapping her free arm around her side, as tears drip down her chin, thick, and fill her lap. 

 

She doesn’t remember when she closed her eyes, but she widens them open. 

-Lorian!- she screams. Lorian is dead, sounds in her thoughts. She lays on the floor, her naked and cold legs visible from under her skirt’s cut. She leans on her palms, but her arms shake, and she falls back to the floor. Her hair fall off the back of her head, covering her face. Her eyes are huid, her shoulders sore, her mouth dry. 

She looks around herself. The twin’s bed is empty, the door open. The breeze coming from the window gives her chills. Someone placed a black wool shroud around her shoulders. She shakes her head. She sits down, curls up inside her shawl like inside a blanket.

 _Where’s everyone? Emma? Osi? Lothric?_ She must stand up. _Get up_. She leans onto the bed, shaking legs under her crumpled up shirt. _Go to Lothric. To Osi_. She has to drag herself to the door as if her body was melting like lava. She had known, centuries ago, a boy with lava sores. One of the children of the Witch of Izalith, shy and gentle of ways. The Witch of Izalith died before him, as it should have been. But if _this_ is what it’s like to lose a son, Gwynevere doesn’t wish it even on the worst of monsters.  

 _To the door, Gwynevere repeats herself_. To the chapel: Lorian will probably be there. And Lorian and Oceiros too. Her legs are stone, her face boils – but the rest of her face is chilling, as if a layer of frost had formed under her skin. 

-My queen.- a voice proclaims. A young scholar bows at her passage, rosy, blue hair and golden eyes: she doesn’t recognize her. -My deepest condolences.-

Gwynevere coughs out a “thank you”. The girl won’t be the first, nor the last, to speak to her that way, and a queen should know how to behave. She tries to smile with the courtesy that befits her, but her lips tremble as she folds them upwards. 

-Don’t try to smile.- the scholar whispers. -Your loss is great.- 

Gwynevere clenches her lips. -Where’s my husband?-

-He has locked himself in his room. His Majesty was very outworn. He doesn’t want to see anyone.. the scholar averts her gaze from her. -I heard screams. I couldn’t dare to cross the door.- 

Gwynevere’s legs tremble. _Oceiros, what are you doing?_ She leans to the wall and sighs. I must move. _I have another son_. 

She swallows. -What of Lothric?-

-His Eminence Sulyvahn is with him. He has been consoling and tending of him all morning.- 

Gwynevere clenches her fist. _Not him, for the Flame_. The scholar takes one step forward. -Do you feel good? Do you want to sit down?-

Gwynevere shakes her head. Despite it all, she’s still the queen. -No,please. I would like to change up. A mourning gown, if you may.-

Her voice is coarse, barely a whisper as she pronounces the last line. She clenches her teeth not to cry. The scholar places a hand on her arm, eyes low. 

-I can help you get dressed, if you want to.- 

-Thank you, but I’d rather not.- Gwynevere pants. She feels hollow, _done for_ , as if she had been walking in a straight line for months on end – and for the first time, she hates being the queen. 

-Do the people ask of the prince?- she grunts. 

The scholar nods. -The boy’s body has been placed in the chapel. Sulyvahn and the Priests of Lothric have dealt with the boy’s preparation. Nobody is allowed to see him.-

Gwynevere would want to keep listening, but every new word gives her chills. -I will go meet the subjects.- she orders herself. -Your duty is over, you’re deployed.- 

The scholar bows and walks to the corridor. She’s in her twenties, she probably grew up alongside her child. Gwynevere clenches her fists and stays silent, watching her go. She inhales, savors the cold filling her mouth. If only Oceiros was there, but the laws of Lothric aren’t kind with those who lose a son. And yet, even her husband vanishes into the _nothingness_. She has to get dressed. Go out. Talk. She repeats it to herself step by step. Open the door, choose a mourning tunic. Words burn in her head as she thinks it. _Loss. My son is dead. I’m tired_. 

 

Humidity has curled up her hair, and the blush on her cheeks became as soft as bread dough. Gwynevere would want to claw it off her face, but even in the corridors there’s people looking at her. They chase her to her rooms, like lizards on the walls. 

The room to the royal bedroom is open, a strand of light cuts the shade of the corridor in two. Gwynevere stays quiet, and her breath is the lone sound in the chilling silence. 

She holds the handle tightly and pushes the door towards the inside. 

-Osi?-

A flush of cold tells her the window is open. Gwynevere clenches her teeth and holds her black wool shawl to her chest. She hasn't seen him since the morning, when he ran off in tears. A strand of her mourning veil covers her right eye. She puts it back. 

-Oceiros?- 

She steps forwards and gets stuck in place, as the sound of a broken glass rises from under her foot. 

-For the First Flame! Oceiros!-

The tents of the canopy lay on the floor, surrounding the bed; the ones at the window, ripped from their staffs, form a graceless, stumpy heap against the glass of the open door window. A stool lays on the side next to the closet, another in the middle of the room, a third one is on the balcony, and one of the glass windows at a small distance from it presents a hole in the middle that’s big enough to let a dog through. 

Gwynevere holds her breath, her teeth chattering. She tosses an edge of her black shawl behind her shoulder and rips her lace veil off her head. _He made this mess_. -My beloved?- she asks, gulping. Silence. The queen takes a step, more glass shatters under her shoes. She blinks. Down there, next to the bed, something lays. Gwynevere walks to it, slowly. For a moment she imagines Lorian hiding under the blankets, ready to jump off and startle her.

 _My son is dead, and I will never accept it_. The body on the ground is Oceiros’ – blue hair, pale skin, scratchy, coarse breath – and the queen desires his embrace more than ever. 

He’s passed out or asleep, covered to the waist by the tent ripped off the canopy. He could be a beggar laying by the walls, wrapped in an old blanket not to chill to death. The kings of Lothric are proud, precious and perfect. _But our son is dead_. 

Gwynevere shakes her head, kneeling by her spouse’s body. 

-My love, what have you done?-

Strands of blue hair shine held tight in Oceiros’ skinny fingers. Three blood crusts as thick as his little finger cross through his right cheek, four the left; a stream of dry mucus runs through the square of skin that goes from his nostrils to his upper lips, and short and rigid mustache pop from its consistence. A reticulum of long, thin crusts, identical to those on his face, run through the passed out king’s arms and chest.

Tears sting, and for a moment her husband vanishes in a shaky, blue stain. The queen wipes her eyes with a tip of her shawl, stroking Oceiros’ cheek with her thumb. 

He’s all lacerated. Oceiros wails, a bloodshot eye opens and looks at her through a humid veil.

-Gghhkk…-

He has screamed to the point of losing his voice. Gwynevere sighs, lends him a hand to grab. Oceiros’ hold shakes around hers. The king sits down, shaking his head. He takes the tent off himself and covers his bare chest with it.

-Ggghh…-

-You’re hoarse. Don’t speak.-

Oceiros nods. He shuts his eyes, a tear shatters on his knee. He still has to cry, but Gwynevere can’t fault him for. She frees her face from her hair, sneaks her arm under her husband’s armpit, pulling him up. His undone hair tickle her neck and chest. Gwynevere prints a kiss on his right temple, and proceeds with small steps to the undone bed. 

Oceiros curls up on the pillow like a cat. panting from his agape mouth. Gwynevere too opens her, but no sound comes out of it. _Lorian is dead and my husband claws himself into consumption_. She wants to smile at him. Oceiros deserves it. Her face, however, is as hard as marble.

Gwynevere crawls to her husband’s side and places her palm on his forehead. _As hot as a pyre_ : nothing else to expect of it. She grabs his shoulders, turns him on his back, lets him lay the back of his head on the pillow.

 _A doll_. Oceiros shuts his eyes, opens them again. Two more tears run to his temples. He stretches his hands towards Gwynevere: the queen grabs them and runs her thumb on their back. 

Laying there, by his side, in the middle of the dilapidated room, would be so sweet. Stroking him would be _too much_ – Lorian’s hair were like his, color aside, and she’d spend hours feeling them run between her fingers – but she needs Oceiros like never before, because if there was something intact in the room she herself would be the one to kick it and claw it down. 

The vat lays shattered on the ground, sunken in a puddle the side of Gwynevere’s own shawl. The queen kisses her spouse’s forehead once and leaves the room in silence, his scratchy and throaty breath following her to the door. 

When Gwynevere returns to the room, Oceiros lays on his side, knees curled to the chest and stands of hair bursting from his open mouth. He opens his eyes as she sits down, sniffing. 

He has red eyes, and the mucus crusted on his lips looks like dried mud. Gwynevere hands him the bottle of water and holds his hands as he brings it to his mouth. The half he doesn’t drink, Gwynevere pours it in the bowl she brought with herself. She leads Oceiros’ wrists to the water: the king hesitates, fingers submerged to the knuckles, big and tired eyes set in hers.

 _What are we to do now, my beloved? What will it be of us? Of Lothric?_ She opens her mouth, silently, at that thought. Oceiros grabs her fingers, holds them tenderly. Looks at her. _He’s here_. 

Gwynevere sighs. Oceiros lets her go and rubs his eyes with his wet fingers. He submerges his cupped hands and throws the content to his face; water drips off his chin and looks like more, silent tears. 

Gwynevere steps off the bed and walks around it. A compact blush container, of plastered gold, laying against the pole of the canopy. She picks it up, wiping the dust off. She picks up a sapphire bracelet, a sun-shaped ruby earring – lone, and she can’t see the other – a bedazzled cup the size of her fist. And a silver comb, with a chiseled lapis lazuli handle. She feels it in her hand, letting all the objects fall on the carpet.

Could be worth a try. Gwynevere picks it up and walks back to Oceiros. She sits behind her husband’s back, strokes his shoulders, faintly kisses the back of his head. She picks up the comb and runs it through the iridescent blue hair. Oceiros sighs deeply, rocks back and forth following the path of her strokes. 

The comb gets stuck in the messy hair, her husband wails as she tugs at it. She pulls it back, runs it again slower. _I’m tired. Lorian is dead_. She rubs a blue strand between her thumb and index, lets it fall with the others.

L _orian is dead. He fell down in his sleep, like nothing_. Oceiros sighs faintly, strokes his own, already combed hair. She had thought right: they’re as soft as Lorian’s. _And Lorian is dead. Oceiros is suffering alongside me_. And she holds onto his shoulder, sinking her face into his hair.


End file.
